


This hour and what is dead

by Diablerie



Series: Because it is my heart [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dark fic, Gun Violence, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Bond, Mating under duress, Rape/Non-con Elements, references to daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablerie/pseuds/Diablerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't how Stiles imagined introducing his significant other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This hour and what is dead

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from [this poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172098). 
> 
> This is what happens after the first section of In every sky in every hell (is your smile). You could read this as a standalone, but you might be confused (and you'd be missing some context). I never planned to explain the backstory, but I couldn't stop myself. There was going to be the first sex scene, but I realized that this story was complete. So the sex scene is next on the list for this series.
> 
>  
> 
> **Please be aware that Peter coerced Stiles into this relationship and uses the bond to manipulate him. He's also not completely forthcoming with anybody about how it works. Nothing about this is healthy or good.**

Entering the house he grew up in while in the company of the murderer who coerced him into some kind of magical bond tops the list of Stiles’ surreal life moments. His head throbs even though Peter had deigned to siphon off some of the pain with his freaky werewolf powers. Actually, Stiles is pretty sure that Peter left some of the pain to ensure that he’s too distracted and uncomfortable to protest this home visit. There’s no way any meet-the-parents situation will turn out well for anyone—except Peter. He’s like a fucking cat, always landing on his feet.

Peter keeps both hands on Stiles, steering them through the house. One hand on the back of his neck and the other circling his sore wrist, creating strange jolts of prickling heat under the broken skin. He can’t stop shivering at the sharp pleasure cutting through him, painful in its intensity. His body is overwhelmed by the many shocks of the night, and it hasn’t decided yet if it likes the sensation. 

All too soon they reach his dad, sitting with his paperwork spread out over the entire table. He’s probably only been home for a few minutes. He’s still wearing his duty belt, but the tumbler is already half-empty. Stiles winces at this new evidence of how the “animal attacks” and the renewed Hale fire investigation are taking their toll on his dad. And here he is, bringing the missing Hale right to him, after Stiles has already bartered away his freedom in exchange for everyone else’s.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles croaks, lifting his free hand to brush over the bump on his forehead. For a moment, the pain intensifies, warring with his mating bite and the spikes of foreign emotion from the bond. He stumbles at the threshold, but Peter’s hold never wavers as he pulls him back, flush against his warmer-than-human chest. Peter cuddles him like it should be comforting. It’s not, but then he shoves a burst of soothing emotions through the bond and Stiles relaxes. _Fuck._ The bond is better than drugs.

Accustomed to Stiles’ clumsiness and random outbursts, his dad doesn’t even look up from from where he’s frowning at his files, so Stiles tries again. Or he would have, if Peter didn’t take it upon himself to get the conversational ball rolling. Stiles can’t see Peter’s face, but he’s starting to sort out the Peter-threads in his mind. Right now they feel like the anticipation of a hunter watching a trap about to spring shut. 

“Hello, Sheriff. Don’t mind us. I’ll be out of your hair shortly, but I thought I should let you know how things are going to be from now on.”

John’s head snaps up at a stranger’s voice in his house, making vaguely threatening statements. His hand darts for his gun when he spots his son in such an intimate position with an unknown, adult man. Stiles knows the second that his dad notices the bruise on his face and the blood on his right sleeve because he draws his gun and leaps to his feet, ignoring the chair as it clatters to the floor.

“You’re going to want to step away from my son.” The safety clicking off is like thunder. Stiles shrinks back from the gun, _from his dad_ , and presses more firmly against Peter.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Peter coos. He nuzzles behind Stiles’ ear and laps at the traces of salt that remain from his earlier panicked sweating. “Let me explain things to your father. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.” 

John grinds his teeth. “Are you okay, Stiles? Did he hurt you?” _Did he hurt you where I can’t see?_

“I’m fine, Dad. Just.” His voice cracks. “You need to listen to Peter, okay? Just _please_.”

“Yes, John. You should listen to your son.” Peter loosens his grip on Stiles. He pauses before shrugging out of his jacket and stepping out from behind Stiles, smiling and spreading his arms wide, leather jacket dangling from one hand like a flag. And seriously, does he want to make a target of himself? He’s a werewolf, but being shot in a vital region still has to hurt. “After all, is that any way to talk to your brand new son-in-law?”

“Like hell you are,” he spits back. “Stiles, son.” John’s tone softens with concern. “Everything’s going to be fine, kiddo. Daddy’s going to take care of everything.”

Peter steps forward, clicking his tongue in careless disapproval. “Now now. It’s my responsibility and my joy to care for Stiles from now on… in _every_ way.” He smirks at John, goading him, and in the part of Stiles’ mind labelled “Peter”, he detects an alien sense of impatience, something ruthless and eager and barely restrained. 

Eager for what Stiles isn’t certain. Peter has to know that his arrogant disregard for Stiles’ dad, the man with the gun trained on him, is only making this worse. He should know… except the little flickers Stiles gets indicate that Peter wants his dad to get mad, to do _something_ , though Stiles can’t pick out the specifics.

“Who knows, John?” Peter keeps moving until he’s close enough to cradle the rock-steady gun in his hands. “Maybe soon we’ll be one big happy family. Won’t that be lovely?” He guides the gun up to his chest. From behind, Stiles can’t see where the gun points, but he’s certain that it’s centered directly over Peter’s heart. He watches, frozen in horrified disbelief as Peter leans in like he’s sharing a secret. He smirks with unconcealed malice before delivering the final shot, “Perhaps Stiles will call me daddy, too.” 

“Dad don’t—” Stiles cuts off with a gasp and stumbles at the painless pressure that wraps around his chest.

The gunshot must have deafened Peter with his heightened senses, but he doesn’t react. He barely moves on impact or when the bullet rips out of his back. Blood pours out of his already-healing wound. Stiles moves without thinking, lifting a trembling hand to the closing hole. His world narrows down to the hot blood under his fingers, the rise and fall of Peter’s back. The bond is a living thing between them, surging triumphantly. Stiles doesn’t hear the conversation going on over his head or realize that his face is wet with tears. He doesn’t know how much he hurts—not until his dad rips him away from Peter.

The world rushes back into focus, and all of a sudden, he’s aware of his dad’s furious yelling and Peter’s easy responses. He can feel every bit of the agony Peter felt from being shot in the fucking heart, radiating from his chest. His head spins. He’s certain he’s going to pass out or vomit from the pain, but Peter catches him up in his arms. Slowly the pain recedes as Peter pulls it out and closes that part of their bond. He rubs his face in Stiles’ hair and drops light kisses against his temple. “It’s okay, baby. I’m right here. I’m sorry. I had to show your daddy what could happen if he tries to kill me. As he just saw, attempts on my life will be very dangerous for you, but I think we’ve come to an understanding.” The mental tendrils marked “Peter” glow, bright with satisfaction. “Isn’t that right, John?”

John places the gun back in its holster. He grabs his whiskey and throws it back, pouring another few shots worth with a shaky hand. “We have, Hale.”

“Did you hear that, Stiles? Daddy gave us his blessing. I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

Stiles slurs out, “Dad?”

“It’s okay, son.” John offers him something closer to a grimace than a smile. “Peter’s going to put you to bed, and then we’re going to discuss some things before he takes care of his business. You just concentrate on resting now.”

“Shhh, Stiles,” Peter croons. A strange lassitude fills his mind. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“But. Scott? Dad?” He struggles to push the words out.

“Didn’t I promise you? I’ll take care of everything. They’ll be safe from me.”

Peter tucks him into bed. When he grows tired of Stiles’ half-formed questions, he cups his jaw with strong fingers and forces him to gaze into red alpha eyes, ordering him into silence. He smiles when Stiles flops onto his pillow, unable to speak. Peter takes the time to fuss over the blankets, straightening them and pulling them up to Stiles’ chin. In a mockery of paternal affection, he lays a tender kiss on Stiles’ brow and whispers, “Sleep, baby. We’ll see each other soon.”

Moments later, Stiles falls into a restless sleep. He dreams of a red lights and smoking guns. A great beast chases him, snapping its jaws, as Stiles runs toward the shadow of his father, always on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if you think I should add more tags.
> 
> [Bones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bonesofbirdwings), you are the best editor and ilu. Thank you for all your help. Additional thanks to the Steter Chatzy for pre-reading.


End file.
